


Built His Own Cage

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Series: Bioshock: Measurement of A Father [6]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BioShock References, BioShock Spoilers, Gen, Mild Language, Prison, Rapture (BioShock), References to Canon, non Canon, only shippy if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 00:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Topside is a little different from how Sinclair remembers.





	Built His Own Cage

Sinclair saw Topside again. But it was a strange meeting.

No tears were shed, no joyful reunion.

Just silence.

And Topside wasn’t Topside anymore.

His name was Delta. Subject Delta.

The latest, successful specimen of an Alpha Series to date.

Seemingly nothing remained of Topside’s old self. That combative nature, that sharp wit, genuinely packed in with his grip on reality.

Sinclair was speechless. And terrified.

Delta was huge, bulky, and he now stood to about seven feet tall.

Sinclair was aghast at the change—wondering in restrained horror how they managed it.

He used to only stand a little over six feet.

It was shortly after Delta had been freshly suited—stuffed into the uniform. And it was around the same time as one of Sinclair’s latest therapy sessions.

He met eyes with Delta in one of the holding cells. They held gazes—far too long for Sinclair

Delta leaned into the window to examine Sinclair head to toe—and clearly he found him familiar.

He slammed one of his great fists against the few-inches-thick glass and roared, his whale-like bellow muffled by the window.

Sinclair’s appointment was put on hold as Delta had broken through containment shortly after.

Sinclair got a view of several guards—absolutely decimated by Delta’s frenzy.

At least three had been killed. And some others were gravely injured.

Yet when Delta saw Sinclair again, he did not attack. He only stood, as if remembering him. Remembering Sinclair’s sacrifice.

Sinclair looked back at him. “So this is what they did to you. Turned you into a... goddamn science experiment.”

Delta responded with a disjointed groan of indiscriminate sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Topside,” Sinclair said dismally, looking up at the lit-up window of Delta’s helmet. “I’m sorry this happened to you.”

Soon enough, the guards brought him down with a mixture of relaxants and tranquillisers. He still had a few kinks to work out.

It was just like Topside—to somehow still remain cognisant even when he wasn’t meant to be. Keeping a personality.

But he remembered a time before this fondly.

Topside could still talk—once. Could still express himself.

And it was nice to hear another voice among the sound of water dripping and wind blowing.

Sinclair finally got in to his therapy with Gil and a few other doctors. But it had been mainly Gil.

“So how’s... _Delta_ been?” Sinclair said offhandedly. Gil pulled Sinclair’s shirt sleeve up, folding it, then wiped his arm with a pad of alcohol.

“Why are you bringing him up?” Gil asked curiously. Stepping back, he turned around to the work table and began to work, blocking off Sinclair’s view.

“I want to know. How he’s adapting, you know?”

Gil cast him a rather condescending glance. Then humoured him with the slightest essence of a shrug. “He’s an impressive example, Sinclair.”

“Impressive isn’t the exactly first word that comes to mind.” Sinclair admitted. “What’s he become?”

“More than what he used to be, Sinclair.” He looked at Sinclair and lifted up a syringe, a small one filled with a glowing red fluid.

_Liquid goddamn gold._

“More, you say?” The businessman remembered he was going through a few minor tweaks. ADAM being gradually introduced into his system to make the transition less jarring. “A little bit o’ a stretch, but I’ll let it slide.” He held his folded sleeve up and grimaced as the needle went into the crook of his elbow.

“He’s... _contributing_.” Gil said hesitantly.

“Not long now, huh?” Sinclair asked after a moment, he never got used to the jabbing. “Before I _contribute_?”

“Not long, no.” Gil answered, nodding. He disposed of the needle. “Are you afraid?”

“Yeah, honestly.” Sinclair admitted, rubbing his arm at the needle’s entry point. “But I guess it’s better than feelin’... you know, nothing.”

“Apathy is not uncommon, Sinclair.” Gil said, rather downcast. “It’s just a defence mechanism. And it is far better than the alternative,.” Gil let a light, frustrated sough escape him. “Sometimes they snap, go on rampages. We’re lucky he didn’t.”

“About Topside—before you lot took him away for full conversion—he told me that he stopped caring.”

“In the last stages, he was defiant.” Gil said, somewhat bitter-sounding in Sinclair’s opinion. “He didn’t fight, but he was... _steadfast_. Talking to us, even.”

“What was he saying?” Sinclair asked.

“He said he wanted to go home.” Gil looked at his daily schedule. He checked the session off as done. “But he knew that we couldn’t grant that to him.“ Gil’s look flickered with some form of shade. “I am quite familiar with that form of guilt tactic.”

“The man just wants to go home—an’ you’re calling it a guilt tactic?”

“I can’t expect you to really understand what I’m saying, Augustus. He hated us, and you know that the second he saw his chance, he’d have killed us all.” He peered at an etched plaque in the office, looked like polished brass. “I guarantee that the man who built Persephone would have been the biggest game.”

Sinclair vaguely recalled that day he staked claim on what would become his base of operations. His own personal cash cow.

Where he began to take in the criminals, protestors, and the provocateurs.

Using them as one would use tools.

“An’ I wouldn’t blame him—not a bit. I know what it’s like down here, now.” Sinclair said, he looked at the medical band on his wrist. “I understand _exactly_ why all the prisoners were out for _my_ blood, because _I_ tainted _theirs_. They all became a bunch of animals, ‘cause of me.”

He had them tested and prodded like lab rats and then caged up to rot. Right in Sinclair’s backyard.

“I made this mess, Gil, an’ I’ll clean it up.”

“Of course you will, Sinclair,” Gil said—Sinclair got the feeling that the doc was patronising him. “In the meantime, this session is just about over.”

“Alright. Then I’m ready to head back.”

He came back to his cell, entering quietly and compliantly. He sat down, unmoving as night began to befall the prison Sinclair had built.

Of course, Sinclair began to suffer in the silence, alone. In the humid little room, he looked at the wall—on the other side of which would have been Topside.

”Goodnight, Topside.” He said into the lonely darkness. Nothing but an echo returned to him.

He did his best to remember. Little bits and pieces, a full scene of recollection returned on the edge of sleep as he lie down...

 

* * *

 

“ _Topside?_ ” Sinclair said. It was long after lights out. They were supposed to be asleep—but Sinclair just couldn’t sleep. “You up?”

“Yeah?” Topside replied.

“Are you afraid?”

“You know, I was, once.” Topside answered him. “I know what’s gonna happen. And so do you.” The bed on the other side creaked. “You should be asking if I’m ready.”

“Are you?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Topside said. “It’s like... they’re just _screwing_ with us, now.” He breathed. “They’ve been showing me my suit, you know? And... I’m just supposed to _accept_ that I’m gonna have to be put in that _thing_.”

“I haven’t seen my suit yet.” Sinclair said softly, a little fearfully.

“Don’t sound so excited,” said Topside critically, “I’ve seen some of those suits in action, in passing. It’s surreal.” Sinclair could hear Topside’s voice quaver a little. “I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to lose it. I just want to go home.” He said brokenly. “Wherever _home_ is.”

Topside could no longer remember who he was, or where he came from.

And the only way Sinclair was able to remember all of that was through spite. But even then he was starting to give up the struggle.

“I don’t want it either, Topside.” Sinclair said. “But I guess we’re both out o’ luck, huh?”

“Heh, yeah.” Topside said humorously. “I mean, I suppose there’s no sense in trying to fight that. We’re both on the same sinking ship.”

“You know, it was great to have met ya, Topside.” Sinclair said with a half-smile.

“Likewise, Sinclair.” Topside said. “If there wasn’t a wall here, I’d be shaking your hand.”

“I’m sorry you had to be dealt this hand. One spell o’ bad luck after the other, and you still find the time to be sarcastic.”

“Well, I guess it’s as Alexander says, it’s a defence mechanism. It’s out of your control, so you stop caring, hoping that makes it easier.”

“Does it?”

”Yeah.” Topside admitted. “But not by much.” Sinclair heard him lie down in the bed. “It’s hard to not care, contrary to popular belief. Goodnight, Sinclair.”

“Goodnight, Topside.”

And that had been the last night Sinclair had ever spoken to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — At some point, Topside buried the hatchet with Sinclair, finding that hating him wasn’t worth it anymore, given that they were both in the same situation.
> 
> — Sinclair does respect Topside, just a little, and honestly considers him a far better man than he is.


End file.
